Shakespeare is a truly accomplished novelist and biographer without a doubt. Snowleg is beautifully structured and full of satisfying sentences. Even so, I found myself struggling through the novel. Peter, a boarding school pupil, learns from his mother on his sixteenth birthday that the man he calls father is, in fact his step-father and his biological father is an East German political prisoner his mother met only once during a trip to develop her budding musical talent. This discovery is more than disconcerting and leads to some sustained low-level bullying at his minor public school, where the pupils engage in some pretty dated German-bashing and refer constantly to the Bosch, the war and other anti-Hun tropes that read as a little dated in the twenty-twenties. If memory serves me well, they might have read as a little dated even in the year of publication, 2004. This theme in the novel, the links rivalries and differences between England and Germany is interesting but one that might have read better in the 1970s than at the turn of the millennium. Few people in contemporary Britain have direct experience of the war or even parents who did. This makes the attitudes of the English and German characters to each other read as a strange historical fiction now and a fiction that's uncomfortable reading and sounds sadly racist. In any event, the school bullying scars Peter and leads to the personal mistakes that form the novel's later plotlines.
In his twenties and now living in West Germany, Peter has his own fleeting romantic encounter across the iron curtain and this creates an opportunity for some interesting exploration of what it meant to live under the Stasi jackboot, constantly in fear of its ubiquitous web of informers. However, Peter just can't overcome an obsession with his East German one-night stand and this preoccupation is less than convincing. It does set up a psychological fault line though, which consigns all his subsequent romantic encounters to failure. Peter's brutally basic sexism was a barrier to this reader forming even a passing affection for him. Without even a very slender thread of likeability in the main character, the four hundred pages that followed become a bit of a chore.
I loved Shakespeare's biography of Bruce Chatwin, unforgiving and iconoclastic as it was so I hope his other highly-rated novels prove to be more enjoyable. I will get round to them. One day.